danger of being caught, Kemper might have cut his circuit short.
Yet now the demon sniffed and sucked at the air, and its skull heads craned around the room, searching something out. Malden edged away slowly, crawling backward on his hands so as not to make any noise, in case the thing had ears hidden somewhere on its body.
One of the skull heads fixated on a particular glass-fronted bookcase. It brought a second head around to sniff as well, as if making sure it had the right scent. Then it threw all of its considerable mass at the case, pulverizing the glass, sending the books flying, smashing through the thick wooden shelves. It savaged the case with its jaws and its huge wet mouth, striking again and again with its claws and hooves and talons until it battered through the wall behind the case as well.
A lone playing card, the six of acorns, floated out of the wreckage and drifted to the floor. The demon stamped on it, tore it to shreds with its teeth, and swallowed the bits of paper that remained.
By the time it was finished, Malden had already broken for the next door, and the next hallway.
Chapter Ninety
Croy gritted his teeth.
For my lord the Burgrave, he thought. For honor. For the code of the Ancient Blades. For the sake of my immortal soul.
For Cythera.
Every fiber of his being was in agreement. He would not surrender his sword. He would not turn and walk away. If he died in the next moment, he would die as he had lived. The sacrifice was acceptable.
But he didn’t intend to die.
As he drew Ghostcutter free of its scabbard, warmth flowed down his arm. His heart was giving up the last of its strength, all in the service of one final battle.
Bikker smiled, as if this was exactly what he wanted. “You’ll fall quickly enough. But you’ll die on your feet,” he said. “Do you see what honor is, now? Honor is something that exists between men like us. Strong men! The weak of this world, the peasants, the little people-they know nothing of it.”
Croy thought of Malden and Kemper affirming that there was no honor among thieves. Maybe Bikker was right.
But-no. Malden had risked everything to help Cythera. Malden had gone into Hazoth’s villa, uncertain of what he could achieve, but willing to try.
“You were wrong earlier,” Croy said.
“What? What are you prattling about?” Bikker demanded.
“Earlier. You said I thought my blood was a different color from yours. You were wrong.”
“I think you’re feverish, Croy. Your wounds would certainly warrant it. Speak clearly, man, or just be quiet and let us finish what we’ve started.”
“I don’t think I bleed a different color than you,” Croy said. “Blood is the same in every man’s veins. But there is something in me you can’t match.”
He thought back to when Bikker had trained him, to one day in particular. They’d been going through postures for hours, Croy learning every way there was to hold a sword. They’d practiced hundreds of parries, thousands of lunges. Bikker called a halt when neither of them could see for the sweat in their eyes. Then, when Croy put Ghostcutter away for the day, Bikker picked up a wooden practice sword and knocked him into a pigpen with one solid whack to the back of his knees.
“Fencing is something gentle folk do,” Bikker had said. “You can train a lifetime to master it. But never forget-anyone, even a peasant, can bring you down with a single, solid blow. It only takes one cut to kill a man.”
So now he faced Bikker with Ghostcutter gripped in both hands, the point aimed directly at Bikker’s heart. Bikker took his own stance, with Acidtongue at an angle across the front of his body.
If he was focused and committed enough, Croy thought, he might strike one more blow before his body gave out completely. He would have to make it the one that brought Bikker down.
The two of them nodded at each other in way of salute.
And then they began.
Chapter Ninety-One
Malden hurried down the long corridor at the back of the villa that opened on the dining room and its preparatory. The door there would provide another chance to escape into the night-but he wasn’t done yet.
Behind him the prematurely born demon howled and raged and clawed at the walls. An ornamental table stood in the hallway, a delicate piece of turned rosewood. The nine of bells lay on its surface like a calling card.
With a cry of rage the demon smashed the table to flinders, then beat at the wall and floor where the table had been with an unquenchable will and a strength a hundred times greater than a man’s. The card was obliterated, but still the demon smashed and clawed until the plaster wall exploded in a cloud of white dust and the wattles behind it burst like matchwood. Malden hurried down the hall, breathing heavily now. Surely it wouldn’t take much longer.
Behind him he could hear the demon clawing at the walls, pulling down timbers from the ceiling. The house shook and danced, and he was nearly thrown from his feet with every step. The demon was taking the place to pieces in its search for him.
Half the house was in ruins now, torn apart by the beast as it sought out his scent. It must be horribly confused, he thought, because it smelled him everywhere-everywhere Kemper had left one of his cards.
Cythera had told him that the demon hunted by smell alone, and that it could follow its prey’s scent through any obstacle or diversion. It made him think of someone else who worked miracles with his nose-Kemper, the card sharp, whose cards were not visibly marked but who knew the stink of every one of them so well that when he dealt them, they might as well have been faceup.
With all that in mind, for the past three days Malden had carried those cards inside his tunic, through all manner of exertions. He had rubbed them on his armpits and his groin, on the sweaty back of his neck, on any part of his body that might imbue them with his smell. He had not lacked for exudation-fear made him sweat copiously.
When he gave them back to Kemper, the card sharp was most displeased. Malden had ruined them for gaming by changing the invisible markings Kemper knew so well. But for the purposes of this scheme, the card sharp had been willing to make the sacrifice. While Malden worked his way into the sanctum, Kemper had moved around the house as only an intangible man could, walking through walls and locked doors, keeping out of sight, and placing his cards here and there, one under a fine mahogany dressing table, one in a closet full of crockery and plates.
The cards served the purpose of slowing the demon down. It had to investigate each card, and its method of investigation was to destroy whatever it smelled. The time it took the demon to smash Hazoth’s finest furniture was all the time Malden needed to get a head start on it and keep clear of its jaws.
Hopefully, the cards would serve another purpose.
Malden had known it would be impossible to steal the crown back without alerting Hazoth to his presence. The man was a sorcerer, after all, and this was his own house. After hundreds of years in it he must know its every nook and cranny better than Kemper knew his cards. So Malden’s scheme to retake the crown had been constructed, by necessity, around the knowledge that eventually he would have to face the demon.
Malden turned in a doorway and looked down a long hall lit only by a single cresset. Halfway down the hall the demon roared as it pulverized a linen press, searching destructively for the card Kemper must have hidden at its bottom. Shreds of cloth and fibers of the best linen floated in the air as the demon beat and flailed at the walls with
